


Burn This City

by arrow_through_my_writers_block



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Mob family, Mystery, Organized Crime, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Threats of Violence, Violence, mob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6011680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrow_through_my_writers_block/pseuds/arrow_through_my_writers_block
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity is left without her mother, now the leader of the Smoak crime outfit that has held numerous industries within Star City captive for years. But now, her life hangs in the balance as her mother's killer plots her demise. She enlists her top enforcer - and secret lover - Oliver Queen to take out her rivals before they can get to her. But with their romance and her duties to the outfit, nothing is certain and no one can be trusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Understood

**Author's Note:**

> So after the amazing flash forward we were given in the midseason premiere, so many folks were thirsty for a mob au. So, here's my take. Here's a mob au that I first intended to write as a one-shot, but then all these scenes kept coming to mind and I couldn't fit it all in. So I'm breaking it up into a few chapters. Not sure how many as of yet. But enjoy this sexy mob au.

 

She watched as he stood at the foot of the grave, displays of flowers surrounding him. The flowers were a mockery - a bright point in the sadness of her loss and the loss of the entire outfit. Her mother had been bright and bubbly, but tough as nails and cruel when necessity dictated. The flowers were a true mockery on her memory.

He began to stride toward the limo, his muscled body shrouded in the black suit. She always felt he looked best in a suit, but he constantly disagreed. He was the only one she allowed to disagree with her; anyone else would mean potential revolt. He opened the door on the opposite side of the limo and slid in, shutting the door after him. She listened as he let out a breath - a long held in sigh.

Her eyes remained transfixed on her mother’s grave, the headstone tall and lonely amongst the flowers and green grass of the private cemetery. She fought back tears.

“Are you okay, Felicity?” Oliver asked, his voice clipped and professional. Beneath the surface, she could hear his affection for her.

“Are you?” The question was ridiculous. It wasn’t his mother buried six feet under. But he answered anyway, quietly.

“No.”

She fought the urge to look at him, to drown in his soulful blue eyes and lose herself in the warmth of his protective embrace. But she knew it was not the time. It was the time for retaliation. It was time to end things.

“You know what you have to do, right?”

She waited for an answer, but nothing came. Silence rested between them.

“You have to kill the son of a bitch.”

She heard Oliver take in a deep, thoughtful breath. The kind of breath that signified his distaste for a situation. But he doesn’t say a word.

“Do not seek me out until you’ve finished it,” she continued, leaving out the obvious implications the order might have on their secretive relationship. “I will not see you until you’ve killed him.”

After a few more tense moments of complete silence, she heard the door open and his simple, one word answer: “Understood.”

>>>\------>

The look on her face had said it all - it had spoken what her few words had not. He knew her far better than she was willing to admit. Knew the bubbly and adorable woman beneath the coldness and beneath the persona she had learned to bear so well. But now beneath her coldness lay a broken woman. A woman shattered by loss and the bitter need for revenge. And he would give her what she sought no matter the cost.

He would return to her victorious. He would return to her to lend her his shoulder to cry on, along with whatever else she demanded. And she demanded so much. So much and yet he would agree to so much more if it were her asking.

"Oliver, where's your head, man?" Digg asked, eyes squinting down at the empty car parked outside of an old hotel long since abandoned to the trash of Star City.

"You know where," Oliver replied, his fingers twitching as he waited.

Digg pulled his gun out from its holster and released the magazine, checking to see that it was loaded to capacity. Completely full, as per usual. Oliver mimicked his friend, finding his magazine full with shining bullets waiting for a new home.

"You gotta keep your head clear, Oliver."

He nodded. Digg was right, as per usual. But it was difficult for him. The weight of Felicity's demand was crushing, so painful against him. He turned his gaze back to the car - back to the dredge of lowlifes that were cascading out of the crooked doors of the building, turning and leaving in all directions. Three men remained at the car. One a driver - unimportant. Two enemy enforcers - important. Oliver squinted, watching the men as they conversed. They were making a deal, or talking about a deal. It didn’t matter much what they were discussing. All Oliver knew was that this was the beginning. These men would be the catalyst for the fire he would set throughout the city.

All in her name. All in Felicity’s name.

His fingers twitched as he held the grip of his gun, the worn rubber catching on his calloused palm. “We follow them when they leave,” he murmured. Diggle hummed in agreement. “They’ll lead us to our first target.”

 

>>>\------>

 

The box sat on the foot of her bed, a sad reminder of her world and the rules her parents had set. It was rather plain and unassuming, just a dark old hat box with a silky red ribbon as a handle. Her family's color - the color of the outfit.

She stared at the box, her heart pounding straight up to her ears. It was the box that had been hidden in her mother's bedroom, deep in the bowels of her walk-in closet. Felicity was the only one left who knew of its existence - the evidence of the biggest rule within the family: Hide all personal belongings. Photos, all forms of identification, momentos. Even birthday cards were hidden away from prying eyes. She couldn't recall a time when family photos had been displayed proudly in frames. It simply never happened.

The lid taunted her, begging her to lift it, even if only an inch. It begged for her to see what her mother had deemed too dangerous to leave accessible.

Felicity scooted closer, crossing her legs beneath her. She reached for the lid, fingers trembling and palms sweating. She had never looked inside this box. She had always been kept out of her mother's room and she had certainly never ventured into the closet. Now her mother's heart and soul was sitting before her, exposed and vulnerable. But she could no longer keep away from the secrets. She had to understand the woman who had been so influential to her and yet so closed off and distant.

With a quick movement, she lifted the lid and placed it gently on the bed beside the box. Inside, everything was a mess. But, the longer she stared, the more organized it began to appear. A great care had been taken in making it appear disorganized - like a box of old junk. The sort of box one might toss old papers in, just in the off chance they might be needed one day.

The deeper she delved, the older the memories became. The smaller her photographed self became - younger and innocent to the life her parents led. Smiles missing prominent teeth. Pigtails and glasses much too big for her face. It was no doubt that she had been the apple of her parents' eyes, regardless of their coldness and secrecy.

She found her mother's passport, as well as numerous false identities. Felicity wondered if things might have been different if her mother had used one. She had plenty to choose from. She imagined her mother sunbathing on some exotic white sand beach, old fashioned sunglasses shielding her eyes and her blonde hair shimmering in the rays.

Then her mind shifted to a more likely scenario. A scenario for herself. A safe haven she longed to experience.

A breezy, open air villa in Bali with a view of a gorgeous beach. It would be sunset, with red and golden light painting the sky. And a pair of strong, warm arms would be enveloping her in their comforting expanse. Oliver. It could and would only ever be Oliver Queen. Her forbidden lover. Her only true friend. Her everything.

She could imagine the perfection of such a getaway. Long days filled with lazy cat naps and slow lovemaking. Trips to the beach with childish antics and luxurious sunbathing. More lovemaking throughout the night.

Her cheeks felt warm thinking about it. She wondered if it would be worth it... to pick up and leave for dreamy locales. With Oliver, everything was dreamy. The coldness she had slowly grown to rely on was wavering, her mask slowly dropping to reveal her true self. The girl from those photos. The quirky, intelligent mind hidden behind years of training and conditioning.

Oliver knew the real her. He knew her true self before she had been willing to reveal it. And he loved her for every facet of her being.

Her hands hovered over the box, letting the memories slowly cascade in and out of her mind. The waves of her grief had begun to dissipate, leaving behind a heated, swollen anger that she had never experienced before. It was overwhelming, cutting off connection to her daydreams and leaving her heart hammering in her chest.

She needed revenge. She needed her mother's killer to get his just desserts. And most of all, she needed Oliver. She needed him more than she liked to admit.

She closed the box, unwilling to clutter her mind with the past. Her future was uncertain. Her plans were risky. Her goals were even riskier. She hopped of the bed and lugged the box to her closet and buried it beneath a pile of old clothes, along with her own box. She eyed the hidden secrets before switching the closet light off and shutting the door. As she turned, the first thing she glimpsed was a shadow on the floor.

Not her own. Someone else’s.

Then she saw him. An enemy enforcer. One low on the totem pole based on his uncertain stance and youthful face.

“I’m here to finish this,” the young man growled. Felicity supposed it was meant to be menacing, but she deemed it laughable.

“I don’t think you have what it takes to finish this,” she said, taking a step back toward the vanity flanking the closet door. She knew her small .380 pistol was there, loaded and ready if needed. And it was definitely needed now.

“You underestimate me.”

“You underestimate my men.”

The young man glanced around. “What men? I don’t see any men.”

Felicity sighed, attempting to appear calm as she took another step back. “If you were actually planning on finishing this, then why are you blabbering? Not that I have any problem with this vocal exchange but-”

“Shut the fuck up, Smoak!”

Felicity held her hands up. “Relax.” She studied him for a moment. She studied his stance and the almost undetectable tremble of his hands, one holding a shimmering knife. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

The hand holding the knife loosened slightly and then dropped a few inches as the question hit home. Then he regained his composure. "Of course I have!"

She shook her head. "If you had, I'd already be dead and you'd already be scurrying off into the night like a good little villain."

His brow furrowed. "I have my own way of doing things!"

She stifled the chuckle she longed to let out. “I’m pretty sure it’s the wrong way, but I’m okay with that because that knife has yet to find a home in my body.”

“Shut up!”

She took another step back, feeling the solid edge of her vanity against her back. As her hand began to slide toward the drawer that housed her pistol, the bedroom door jerked open and a tall, imposing man burst in, kicking it shut behind him. “She should already be dead kid,” he hissed, gun trained on the young man’s face.

“I’m getting to it.”

“You’re taking too long. The house is beginning to rouse,” the man said, then pulled the trigger.

The pop of the suppressed shot was followed by the harsh sound of the bullet connecting with flesh and then bone, blood splattering from the hole. Then the gun shifted aim. Felicity closed her eyes and wrenched the drawer open and her hand flew in, wrapping around the handle of her little pistol. A pearl handle. So lovely and yet fastened to such a deadly object.

She raised the gun, eyes opening to find the man’s own eyes widening as her finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, just as Diggle had taught her.

Then everything slowed down. It was as if she could follow the trip of the bullet to its home in the intruder’s skull. It was as if she could see the skin and bone separating to make room for the shiny metal. And as the man fell backwards against the door, she screamed.

 

>>>\------>

 

They parked a block away from the bar, just to be safe. Oliver checked to be certain all of his guns and knives were hidden within his suit, and then he exited the car. He rarely used weapons other than his fists - he prefered more personal interactions. But today, he was certain he would need all the help he could get if all the men he had watched at the previous location were winding down within the bar ahead.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he groaned. It had been buzzing nonstop for the last ten minutes.

“Oliver,” Diggle murmured behind him.

“What?”

“You should probably answer that.”

“No time.”

“There’s always time.”

He rolled his eyes. Digg, as per usual, was right. He dug the phone out of his pocket and read through the missed calls. All from Roy Harper. Another call began to ring through. He answered. “What?”

“We need you back at the house,” Roy spoke simply and to-the-point.

“Why? I have a job to do.”

“There was a security breach,” Roy said.

Oliver’s stride ceased and Diggle came to his side, brow raised and shoulders tense. “And Felicity?”

“Alive. But shaken. She needs you, Oliver.”

 


	2. Sensations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I had the majority of it written and then my muse disappeared completely! It was ridiculous. But thank you to anyone who is sticking with this story! You rock! 
> 
> I have a new story banner from my fandom bestie @doubledeez06 and a playlist for the story! Have a listen [ here](https://open.spotify.com/user/12856345/playlist/6HVci4ffhoXaCKQutxRIxA) if you like! 
> 
> Now enjoy this second chapter!

 

  


* * *

 

Oliver's room was on the other side of the house. She had only been there a few times - back when she had to sneak around to be with him. It was a dark room. Dark red walls and darkly patterned blankets and black carpeting. And yet it felt bright. Having him in a room made everything bright. Just being in his space with his scents and his residual presence was enough to brighten the world slightly.

But now Felicity was alone, her back against the bed and her legs sprawled out across the floor, toes sinking into the carpet fibers. The bodies and spattered blood made her bedroom impossible to remain in. She could have gone to any number of rooms. Lord knew they had plenty. But her first thought had been of his room. Of his dark domain.

She recalled the first time she had truly met him. Her mother had been receiving threats from her rivals that mentioned Felicity, and extra precautions had been taken. Oliver had been handpicked by Diggle to be Felicity's bodyguard. Then, she had deemed the appointment more like a babysitter. But then she saw him.

Brooding blue eyes. Tall and muscular. Stubble that made her heart pitter-patter in her chest. He was the sort of man she had always dreamed about. And he had been hers.

But it hadn't been easy to break down his walls to leave him exposed. It took careful teasing and the right amount of short skirts. She hadn't gotten far when her mother began setting her up with young men within the outfit. All respectable men with money coming in and a place within the outfit that gave protection. But Felicity had glimpsed Oliver’s expressions when he stood vigil during such conversations with Donna. His rage and jealousy had been palpable.

And then it had exploded.

They had been walking through the house, him behind her as she rushed to her room. All was silent until his low growl reached her ears.

"You're not gonna go out with that bottom-feeder, are you?"

"So what if I am?" she had retorted, tone full of annoyance and slight teasing.

"You deserve better."

His words had been etched with so much sincerity that it stopped her in her tracks and she whirled around to face him. He was inches away, gazing down at her with dark, lust filled eyes and a jaw set tight. She tilted her head back to keep their confrontation even despite the height difference. "What makes you say that?"

"The fact that I happen to believe you're remarkable," he had whispered, hands coming up to find a home with her. One on her cheek and one at the back of her neck to twine fingers into her curls. His lips had parted and within seconds they were against hers, the hand at her neck pulling her closer. His lips had been gentle at first - timid and searching. Then they had shifted intensity, tongue flicking out to battle against hers and it was over.

She had won.

He was hers.

She hadn't been certain when her back had hit the wall, and she definitely hadn't been fully aware of her hand grazing down his body to grip the hard bulge in his pants, but it hadn't mattered. All she had wanted was him.

His hands had danced along her body, squeezing and pinching and caressing all the right places as he inched them back toward a door.

His door.

The darkness within the room had engulfed them for a moment before his fingers left her skin and met a light switch, giving them a dim light with which to glimpse one another.

He was panting and she was panting, breasts heaving against his chest as she took in each breath of air that he shared.

The room had smelled of him - a woodsy, manly scent that had sent her mind reeling. Every second she spent in his presence - in his personal space - was a second that locked her into an obsession. It had been impossible to deny her feelings. And the more he had touched her, the more she knew it was right.

Felicity shook herself out of the memories as the sound of the door creaking open reached her ears.

 

>>>\------>

 

Oliver rushed into the mansion, heart pounding and fists clenched. Roy stood in the foyer speaking with another guard. 

"What the hell happened? Where is she?" he demanded.

Roy took a step back. "In your room. I think you should check hers first before you check on her."

Oliver nodded, but his heart thundered in a panicked need to see her - to know, without any doubt, that she was safe. He followed Roy up the stairs and down the long, dark hallway to Felicity's rooms. He recalled the first time he had followed her to these same rooms.

He had watched her skirt dance with her flirtatious gait, her ponytail swinging to match the sway of her hips. They had been together once. One heated moment of passion that had triggered his forbidden need and absolute desire for her. The moment they had reached her door, she turned on him and pounced, all of her force and weight thrown against him. Their lips had collided, melding together like white hot metals being forged into something new.

And somehow, without knowing how, his heart had broken open. In that moment, he had known without a shadow of a doubt that he was hers completely. No question. No other options.

He would live and die to love her. Nothing else mattered.

He cleared his mind of the memory and studied the hallway as he walked through. All seemed untouched - undisturbed. Nothing seemed out of place or askew. "How could there have been a breach?" he asked Roy as Felicity’s door looked ahead of them.

Roy shrugged. "Beats me, boss. We've never had a breach before."

"We also haven't been protecting the last Smoak," Oliver reminded him as they opened the door and stepped inside.

The bedside lamp emitted a dim glow, lengthening shadows and darkening the gore. Oliver eyed the two bodies with distaste. He recognized both without much trouble, though he did not know their names. He had seen them at many Star City functions - looming in the darkness and watching their every move. He knew they were employed, for the most part, by Helena Bertinelli. But their presence in Felicity’s bedroom said something very different.

He clenched his fists and whirled around, leaving the room and every question behind him. All he wanted was Felicity. To know she was okay. “Get Miss Bertinelli here as soon as you can,” he growled over his shoulder. “I have some questions for her.”

 

>>>\------>

 

Felicity looked up from her spot on the floor to find Oliver slipping into the room. He closed the door quietly and then turned around, eyes trained on her instantly. His gaze was full of annoyance and worry and accusation. She knew she probably deserved it - she had ordered him not to be with her until her mother’s killer was taken care of. But his expression sent her walls shooting up and she crossed her arms. 

“I told you not to see me until you killed him,” she hissed despite her longing to run to him.

“You could have been killed tonight.”

His words were spoken in a growl. An impatient growl. She had heard that sound so many times before. So many times when she had tested him - tested his loyalty and love. But she was defiant. “And as I’m sure you noticed, I was capable of defending myself.”

He breathed deeply and then exhaled, long and slow. Another sign of his patience slipping away. “Doesn’t change anything.”

She hopped up from her place on the floor and faced him, wishing he wasn’t such a giant compared to her, and yet wishing she could just throw herself into his arms and wrap her legs around him. His scolding tone and her defiantness had always resulted in the most intense encounters. She clenched her fists to get herself under control. “I protected myself. I killed the men. Everything is fine.”

“Except it isn’t, Felicity!” Oliver shouted, body tense. “You should have left at least one of them alive. I need information, Felicity. I need what they know in order to do my job. And you killed them both!”

The realization hit her hard and her strength and confidence deflated. “Oh,” she murmured, closing her eyes to fight back the rush of emotions flooding through her. Everything swarmed up and began to burn at the backs of her eyes, threatening tears. She felt her hands begin to tremble and her heart pound. She looked up at him, the tears welled up at the line of her eyes and then she broke.

She walked into his arms. They weren’t waiting for her - they were still at his side, stiff and unmoving. But she wrapped her own around his torso, hugged tightly, and breathed in his scent. The scent she had, for so long, relied on for support without ever admitting it. She let out her sobs, the tears drenched his dress shirt, her mascara leaving clumped black smudges. Within a few moments, he let his arms slide up her body to embrace her in all the comfort she sought.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Oliver whispered into her hair. She sighed at the words then shook her head.

“I should be the one who says that,” she murmured, certain her words were muffled against his chest.

“No, you did what you thought was best. In the moment, sometimes we do things that end up being wrong, but we can’t help it.” He pulled away and lifted her chin so she would look at him. The anger and intensity he had shown when he walked in was replaced with tenderness - the gentle, calming blue that she so often swam in when all was lost. “You did what you thought was best, and I cannot  _ completely _ fault you on that.”

She smiled just a smidge then got on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. She wasn’t expecting the kiss to move anywhere but back to their discussion, but then his lips refused to leave hers and his hands slid, once again, down her body to rest at her hips. His fingers dug deep into the fabric of her clothes, scratching her skin and sending shivers up and down her spine. She loved that. His touch. His grip. His lips. His tongue. His everything.

Her hands trailed down his chest, over his abs and down to the buckle nestled on his waist, lips never withdrawing from his. Along the way, she unbuttoned the shirt, exposing the chiseled torso beneath. She maneuvered the belt free of the buckle, slipped the leather out of each loop and let it fall to the floor with a small thud. His fingers left tendrils of fire on her skin as he explored the skin beneath her black, silken pajamas. Within seconds he was pulling the fabric away and down, any direction he could to expose her flesh.

She fumbled with the button of his pants even as he was finished discarding her clothing, then tugged off his own shirt. His hand drifted between her legs, traced the line of her precious center, drawing out heat. She moaned against his mouth and a finger rolled against her clit, teasing. “Oliver,” she whispered shakily.

He growled at his name and continued to move his hand, massaging and hurtling her toward absolute readiness. She was impatient. “Oliver.” This time her tone insistent - a clear demand. His pants were loose around his waist, unbuttoned and unzipped.

His lips moved to her neck, tongue laving out and teeth nipping. He move his hand from her center and lifted her up until her legs wrapped around him. She could feel his cock against her. The anger and frustration and fear mixed with their usual passion was clearly doing things to them, and she regretted none of it. He pushed her against a wall and she moaned at the sudden solidity against her back. He thrusted against her, rubbing his heat against hers. They both sighed. Her hands travelled down, freeing his cock from the confines of his briefs.

Then one of his hands went to wrists, locking them between his fingers. He lifted them above her head, locking her in place as he writhed against her, grinding and moaning. With each movement, she lost a small piece of her worry. But it was too much. She needed so much more. “Ol-i-ver,” she hissed against his mouth, clamping her teeth down on his bottom lip… hard.

He growled and slid home, deep, just how she liked it. And everything faded away.

 

>>>\------>

 

He walked into the room, hands still straightening and tucking his shirt. It was furiously wrinkled from its brief stint crumpled on the floor in their passionate haste. He buttoned his jacket to mask some of the imperfections. 

The room was charged with an awkward silence established by the angry presence of Helena. She was sitting with her arms crossed, dark manicured fingers tapping against her elbow. Her eyes flicked to him, slowly studying him and all of his flaws; her eyes felt like daggers as she glimpsed the wrinkles peeking out from the edges of the jacket.

“You sure know how to keep a girl waiting,” she hissed with a hint of her old flirtation - the flirtation that had long been discarded with his shift over to the Smoak outfit. “Was it necessary to send your goons to fetch me like some sort of prisoner?”

He stifled a snort that longed to break free at her words. “They are not goons,” he corrected with a hint of condescension. “And they are not mine.”

“Of course not,” she retorted. “They’re hers.” The tone of unhinged disgust sent a wave of protectiveness up Oliver’s spine to settle at his shoulder blades, tensing his arms and closing his fists. “What can I do for you, Oliver? Since you obviously aren’t in need of my  _ company _ .” She let her eyes trail over him critically… knowingly… familiarly.

He shook his head. “I need to ask you something. It needs to be taken seriously and kept secret.”

She leaned forward, arms unfolding to let her elbows rest on her knees. “What is it?” Her annoyed and angry tone shifted to guarded curiosity.

“Did you send Anthony and Milo to take out Felicity Smoak?”

“You  _ cannot _ be serious…”

“What did I say, Helena…”

“Sorry,” she said, brow rising into a perfect arch at his intensity. “No, I did not. Why do you ask?”

“Because they’re both dead in her bedroom after an attempted hit.”

“What?”

He moved to the liquor cart in the corner and poured himself of glass of amber liquid. He didn’t much care what it was, he just knew he needed something that would burn going down. He took a sip, savoring the heat. He closed his eyes for a moment - just one moment - to allow his tenseness to subside slightly before he turned to face Helena once more. “They came in to kill her, Helena. She killed them before they could do the job.”

“Well I had nothing to do with that. I have no ill-wishes for Felicity in his difficult time so a hit was not placed on her. Not by anyone.”

He took another sip. “But those were your men.”

She nodded as her eyes lost their spark, dimming into a fearful sadness. “Seems someone else calls them their own.”

The implication of her words did not surprise him. He had assumed she hadn’t put out the hit. It wasn’t in her to make a move like that. She had lost many people and knew how hard it was to rebuild. She would never make a move against Felicity. “Who might that be?”

She shrugged. “That’s a good question, but I can definitely look into it.” She waved over one of her men - the only one they had allowed in. She whispered into his ear and the man nodded gravely. As the man walked out, she turned her attention back to Oliver. “Consider this done. I will find out who did this. For Felicity and for myself. I can’t have traitors in my house.”

 

>>>\------>

 

Felicity rested against Oliver’s pillow, taking in his scent for the millionth time. She would never grow tired of it. For a moment, she considered taking back her demands. Her moment of weakness would repeat itself, she knew that all too well. She could not keep herself from him. But she had to stay firm.

“But I have nowhere else to sleep,” she grumbled. That, of course, was a lie. She had plenty of other rooms to take up residence in, but the comfort within his room drew her in, trapping her. She could not leave. And that meant sharing his bed every night. She shook her head. “He’ll keep his word.” That was for sure. He would keep his word. He would room elsewhere until things were taken care of in her room. She frowned.

After a few moments of moping, she grabbed her phone and sent Roy a text to bring her laptop to Oliver’s room. She tossed the phone aside and left the bed to retrieve her pajamas from their pile on the floor.

Oliver had dressed quickly, apologizing with one kiss to her forehead as he had left her in his bed, naked and wanting so much more.

As she turned the bathroom light on, she thought back to his calloused hands scraping against her skin and his chapped lips pressing fervent kisses against her breasts. It hadn’t taken long for their encounter to go to the bed, and she could still feel the pressure of the bed against her back as he had pounded into her, all gasps and moans and tightly gripped hands. Bonded in fear and panic.

She looked into the mirror and glimpsed her frazzled appearance. Blonde curls the definition of sex hair. Mascara a dark, cloudy mess under her lower lash line. Lips still swollen from their sensual appetite. She turned the faucet and cupped cold water in her hand, letting it fill before she splashed it across her fevered face.

She cleaned the rest of her body, wiping away the musk of their lovemaking, then dressed. She looked at the counter, finding the source of his glorious scent. A cologne. Not high end. Not a name brand. Just some naturally created concoction one might find at a whole foods market. She dressed quickly and went back to the bedroom, bottle in hand. She fluffed the pillows and straightened the sheets, then sprayed a little cologne on her chosen pillow. She didn’t know when he would be back. She didn’t know if he  _ would _ be back. She just wanted more of him to envelope her.    

Her laptop was on the night stand. She grabbed it and opened it. She pressed the power button and watched it boot up as she plopped across the bed on her stomach. As the home screen brightened, a message and code thread sprang up. It was unexpected. It was unfamiliar… and yet…

It flashed brightly, the color of her family’s world: red. The text that filled the small red box tugged at her heart, forcing it into a furious beating until she realized she was holding her breath. She tried to calm herself, but the message sent chills across her body and raised up goosebumps.

**_Is daddy’s girl ready to defeat the ‘roos?_ **

She let the words sink in and then her fingers danced over four keys.

**_Yes._ **

Felicity hesitated, acknowledging the absurdity of the whole thing. It couldn’t be her father. He was gone. He had been gone for years. And yet, here were his words… words he had spoken to her all the time when she was little and terrified of kangaroos. No one else knew about that. “How can anyone else know about this?”

Her finger lingered over the enter key. She took a deep, soothing breath and let it out. Then she pressed the key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Please leave a comment!
> 
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	3. Bullets Rain

* * *

 

The music drowned out all chance of conversation, and for that Felicity was grateful. Grateful to be silent. Grateful to avoid the secret she was keeping from Oliver. She had requested a night out to drink and dance at one of the many clubs her family owned. It had been part of the Smoak outfit for so many years - since before she could really remember - and it hadn’t changed much. The music was different. The liquor selection had grown. But the intense black and red darkness of the space was the same. All mystery and seduction. 

She recalled one of the first times she had gone there with Oliver in tow, following her like a protective puppy.

They had made love once before. Months before. He had kept her at arm’s length afterward, resulting in her teasing him and dangling herself in front of him until she swore his eyes had turned to icy flames. They had raged with each gaze he fixed upon her. And as they had walked into the club and she slid out of her black, studded coat to reveal the slinky black, asymmetrical dress hidden beneath. She didn’t have to see his reaction - she knew it would be subtle, found only in his eyes. She had kept walking, hips swaying with him following close behind. The music pulsed much like it was now, riotous and seductive. She had.worked her way to the bar and acquired a glass of deep red wine that matched the hue of her lips in the dark lighting. Beside her, Oliver had watched, transfixed, as she downed the wine.

“Take your time,” he had growled, lips close to her ear, breath warm and scented with a light mint.

“Fuck you,” she had hissed, whipping him with her hair as she made her way to the dance floor. He had followed, as she had expected. So she kept moving toward the back of the club, to an unused maintenance hallway and then turned quickly to face him.

“What have I done to deserve this?”

She just stared him down, waiting. She had watched as his eyes slowly traveled down her body, appreciating… worshiping. But that’s not what she wanted. She wanted his hands. His lips. His tongue. And when his eyes finally settled back at her stare, he got the hit.

He had moved swiftly toward her and pushed her back against the wall, the curtain separating the hallway from the rest of the club falling closed. He had caged her in, absorbing all of the light and keeping her in darkness - but she liked it that way. The sensation of his hand trailing her body all the way down to her thigh had sent shivers down her spine and created a cloudiness in her mind as he had parted her legs and plunged his hand past her dress and to the lack of pantie beneath. And then it had been all Oliver - hands, breath, lips and tongue, all melded together to give her everything she had wanted.

The memory sent her into breathlessness. Felicity frowned for a moment, sipping her vodka and keeping an eye on the entrance. She wondered why she had pushed him away again in a time of worry and stress and downright need. The other night had shown her that she had been wrong. But now, sitting with him standing right behind her and a memory plaguing her thoughts along with her secret, she couldn’t help but be okay with her decision. It was one lapse in judgement. One. That was it.

But recalling that passionate rendezvous in that hallway dried her throat and sped her heart up. They had been rough in that hallway, so much so that the next morning she had bruises on her back from both his hands and the friction of her bare skin against the wall. Her hips had been sore and she was certain she had some bite marks along her neck and shoulders, but she kept those well hidden from her family. That night had been the end of their distance. He had made sure of that. She had made sure of that.

“What do you keep staring at?” Oliver asked her, leaning close, the woodsy scent of his cologne wafting over her.

“Nothing,” she answered, taking another sip of her vodka.

“Lie.”

Her eyes widened but she tried her best to keep her fear out of her posture and breathing.  _ Can he sense my heart pounding?  _ She shifted her hair to cover the pulse point in her neck.

“You’ve been watching the entrance this whole time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She heard his disbelieving grunt and tried not a grip her glass too tightly - any change in her demeanor would not be lost on him.

“Felicity.” He said her name in a warning tone, not playful or curious. When she didn’t answer, he said it again. “Fe-li-ci-ty.”

She turned quickly, her loose curls whipping him in the face. “What?”

“You’re keeping something from me, I know it. I know you. What’s wrong?”

She glared at him, her heart still thrusting a constant, terrified beat that rivaled the beat of the music around them. His eyes saw everything. All of her secrets, simply hidden by a thin almost sheer veil. He just needed specifics, and he would get them with or without her cooperation. She shifted closer, ready to give in. Ready to tell all. His eyes glittered with triumph and, despite her own wounded pride, she loved that look on him.

Before she could get the words to leave her tongue gunshots rang out, silencing the music in a shower of sparks. Everyone was swarming the exits, fighting to leave through that hallway of their rendezvous and any other escape route they could find. Men in black suits held their guns high, an assemblage of pistols and rifles, all fully loaded and ready to fire more.

“Where’s the Smoak bitch?” shouted the leader, stern and sharp face contorted on a sneer. “Come out little blondie! No need to hide.”

Then the man looked up and caught sight of her in the VIP balcony, now wrapped in Oliver’s arms. He was fighting to drag her away, hissing orders to Roy and the other guards. The intruders lifted their guns, aimed and fired, showering them in a violent flurry of bullets. Roy screamed and fell as she was thrust into a doorway hidden in the wall, then plunged into darkness as the wall closed behind them.

“No! Roy!”

Oliver covered her mouth. “Shh, baby, shh. We can’t let them find you. Only whispers now, okay?”

She nodded and he uncovered her mouth. “Fuck!” she hissed. She could still hear the gunshots, closer now.

“Relax.”

“It was real. It was all real!” she gasped in surprise.

“What was real?”

“The…” She hesitated. She had let it out, her secret and the reason for her presence at the club. “The message and hints from my father.”

Silence fell for just a moment as the weight of the words settled between them, the darkness thicker and Oliver’s grasp on her tightening. “What message?”

“I… I didn’t tell you about it.”

“Clearly,” he growled.

Hushed voices were just outside the hidden door, fading in and out as they wandered around the VIP level, baffled and irritated. Oliver tugged at her hand and forced her through the dark hallway, slowly going down and down into the depths of the club to a safe haven. She knew it well. They had escaped there plenty of times before, but never like this. Never with threats so close and searching. She sighed with relief once they opened a door and entered the old training center.

It was cold and dank inside from years of disuse, the equipment lonely in the dimness. Felicity rubbed her bare arms attempting to get warm as Oliver rushed to the phone attached to the wall and began to dial a number. “Digg, get the club is not secure. We’re in the old training basement. Secure it. Harper is still in there, wounded…” They way his words trailed off spoke volumes. It was possible Roy was dead and the thought made Felicity’s heart ache and a lump form in her throat. After a few more words between them, Oliver slammed the phone back onto the wall mount and turned on her, serious and angry and deadly. She gulped as he stepped toward her. “Please, explain to me what you knew.”

She shook her head. It was her father. It had to have been, but… why would he have put her in harm’s way?

“Felicity, you have to tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Roy could be dead because of your secrecy!”

The words stung and etched deep into her heart, planting the guilt and shame. She nodded. “I received encrypted messages from my father the other night.”

“Your father is dead, Felicity.”

“I know,” she agreed, rubbing her arms more. Oliver slid out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, then he turned away and began pacing. She let his scent envelop her, giving her strength and courage. “But it had to be him. It had to be… the messages mentioned things that only he could know.”

He sighed heavily. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m… not…”

“You got a message, thought it was your dad, and now you think you can just put yourself into danger?”

“It was my father, Oliver!”

“It clearly wasn’t!” He was fuming, nostrils flaring and veins popping. He closed his eyes and tried to rein in the fury. “What was included in the messages? Why did you come here today?”

Felicity recalled all of the messages she had received, each one flashing for a few moments in her head. “Dates, times and locations.”

“For what?”

She shrugged. “I assumed they were clues. Clues on how to find whoever decided to take out my mom. Maybe the same people that took out my dad.”

Oliver shook his head. “Logically, it seems they are specifications for hits. You’re being set up.”

The idea assaulted her with the gravity of all the risks she had let control her, all of the uncertainty. She imagined what might have happened if the hitman had succeeded in ending her life - what would become of her family’s legacy… None of it looked good. She frowned and suddenly felt how much she was shaking. Oliver walked over and wrapped his arms around her, soothing her has best he could. She sighed into those arms. “How can I fix this?”

“Let’s just hope that Digg is able to catch at least one of those guys. We can at least garner some information from them - voluntarily or by force.”

She nodded, fighting back the tears. And then they waited.

They waited for what seemed like hours, the cold of the basement seeping in and finding a place in her heart, blanketing her guilt. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep that guilt at bay. It took root, deep and dangerous. She tried to think of ways she might have been fooled - ways that the messages could only be from her father. She let her mind dissolve into a mess of code and old conversations she had had with her father, questioning everything. She knew her father had installed fail-safes in their systems, little things triggered by very specific things that had gone over head when she was a child - they still did. She knew her father had to have planned for ways to protect her if both he and Donna were killed, but her understanding of those plans was minimal at best.

Diggle arrived, rushing into the basement followed by a flurry of her men, poised for anything. He and Oliver discussed the whole situation is hushed tones, worry etched into the lines of their faces. But she never heard the words she needed to.

“Is Roy...okay?” she asked, interrupting their conversation with a pitiful squeak to her voice.

Diggle turned to her, eyes softened and his posture shifted to strong comfort, his specialty. “He’s critical, Felicity, but he’s alive.”

She nodded, fighting her tears, blinking them away despite the heated sting they caused. “I’m so… so sorry.”

Diggle raised a brow, then looked back and forth between Felicity and Oliver. “Sorry for what? This isn’t your fault.”

“It is. I-”

“We’ll discuss things further once we arrive back at the mansion. Is everything secure?” Oliver interrupted, a warning glare thrown in Felicity’s direction which silenced her immediately. She frowned.

She glanced in Digg’s direction to see him eyeing Oliver with suspicion, then shrugged. “Whatever, man. Yes. Everything is secure. We have a car waiting.”

 

* * *

 

The car ride was silent, as had been the growing norm between them. Oliver fought the urge to hold her hand - this was not the time. She had thrown everyone into danger and hadn’t known. She had believed the cryptic messages and not told him.

And yet… It was understandable. It had been years since she’d seen her father and the possibility of him seeking to protect her from beyond the grave and enact revenge was, truly, too good to be true. But the ease of her acceptance was exactly what he would have done in her position. But his job was to protect her, to ignore emotional connections, to be ruthless and cold. But the trembling of her hands sent pangs to his heart. Her guilt was obvious, she showed it like she did every other emotion. It was written in her posture, the furrow of her brows and the blank stare of her eyes. He knew her almost as well as he knew himself - their secrets and desire never more than a glance away from one another.

He had realized the depth of their connection the moment Felicity had walked into the room to discover her mother’s tortured, lifeless body. He had assumed he could handle the waves of grief and loss that had cascaded off of her with the wails and tears, but he had been so very wrong.

That moment had dug up something within him that he had, for so long, assumed to be lost, cast away by his family’s destruction and his work for Helena. But it was still there and still functional, hidden beneath the barriers he had formed and fortified for so long. It was the sensation parents felt when their children cried or the tug on hearts when a stray animal begged.

The absolute need to comfort. It went beyond protection - it was and would always be more than that.

As Felicity had collapsed onto the cold and unforgiving tile to cradle the shell of her mother, Oliver had deteriorated, falling apart as if every tear she shed had eroded the carefully crafted walls of his persona. He had experienced the emotion and desire, and he had given in. He had fallen beside the woman he loved - the woman he was sworn to protect - and held her as she rocked and rocked, on and on, back and forth, sobbing for the loss and pain. The blood that had puddled on the floor, her mother’s blood, had smeared and divided with their presence, coating and soaking their clothes. Crimson stains that didn’t just mar their garments but also marred their souls. That little eternity in that room had shaped them into who they were now, in the car, side by side, on their way back to the mansion. It had transformed Felicity into something darker, something colder.

He could not fault her. He understood her. So he reached over and let his fingers lace with hers, an intricate knot of flesh and bone that grounded the two of them, connecting them in everything. She squeezed his hand with a force he wasn’t expecting, and he squeezed back. He hoped he was exuding the confidence and strength she needed, hoped it transferred through their joined hands.

The silence continued, interspersed with the sound of cars passing and their quiet breathing. In and out. In and out. No tears. No anymore. He was grateful for the absence of tear - they were too much for him. Tears gripped his heart and tugged harshly until he was a pile of mush at her feet.

When they arrived at the mansion, his hand slipped away from hers and into his pocket to keep the temptation at bay. He exited the car and waited for her to do the same, then closed the door. His coat was still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and he hoped it was grounding her. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

She nodded. “‘Kay.”

Digg led her into the mansion and he rushed in after then, diverting to the right, down a creaking staircase and into a dank room illuminated by one painful fluorescent light. Cast with eerie paleness beneath that light was a single man, right eye swollen and broken arm clutched close to his chest. As Oliver adjusted to the quietness of the room, he could hear the man’s ragged breathing mixed with pitiful whimpers. The man heard Oliver’s footsteps and glanced up, his posture shifting from pained defeat to outright terror. The smallest, most deadly part within Oliver relished in the situation, relished in the thought of forcing the man’s secrets out.

“Hello,” Oliver said, voice a boom in the thick silence. The man shuddered, another whimper exiting his mouth. “I assume you understand why you’re here…”

The man nodded.

“Good, then you’ll also understand what will happen if you don’t cooperate…”

Oliver waited a few moments, letting the words drift in the air, then the man nodded once more.

“Good,” Oliver grabbed a chair from the corner and propped it in front of the man, just beyond the beam of light, then sat, crossing his arms. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

The man remained silent, but he was shivering, arm clutched even tighter to his chest, as if it were his only connection to the world and safety. He did not speak.

“I really don’t want to hurt you.”

More silence. More defiance.

Oliver sighed. “What’s your name?”

This caught the man off guard and he looked up. He was very young beneath the wounds and grime. Maybe eighteen. The fear in his eyes was primal and desperate, a unspoken plea for mercy. “Ethan,” he mumbled, voice gruff and cracked from disuse.

“Ethan, I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me what you know.”

The man shook his head regretfully. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“ _ Can’t _ .”

The vehemence in the word struck Oliver hard, revealing what he hadn’t noticed before. The fear the man housed within his eyes wasn’t only directed toward Oliver… it was in response to something else, something not present. Something so much more terrifying than torture at the hands of Oliver Queen. “Have you been forced to do this?”

The man nodded.

“But you can’t tell me who is forcing you…”

The man nodded again.

“Is this person connected to the Bertinelli family?”

The man shook his head.

“The Falcones?”

The man shook his head once more, his shivering returning tenfold.

“Maroni? Odessa? Ibanescue?”

The man’s head shook with each name Oliver recited. A nervousness began to trickle through him as all of his knowledge depleted. Those were the only families within the region that could undergo a war with the Smoak outfit - the only ones that might foolishly feign the strength and arrogance.

“Triad? Bratva?”

Once again, the man shook his head.

“There’s no one else. Nothing else.”

The man’s head tilted up and he glared at Oliver with a mixture of fear and hatred. “There’s so much more out there. So much you don’t know.”

“Then tell me!” Oliver shouted, his impatience and failings giving way to anger. He lunged forward, fist connecting with the man’s jaw. “Tell me!”

The man’s silence was contrasted with each crack and pop of his face distorting, dislocating beneath every punch. But the man never spoke. Never revealed a nugget of information more. Oliver tugged his pistol out of his holster and racked the slide, then held it out, pressing the barrel to the man’s temple. “Tell me… something… anything.”

“You’re nothing compared to what I fear - what guides my hand. Better to die by your gun than at the hands of a masked monster! Fuck you!”

The shot rang out, clear and glaring and ugly. Oliver’s eyes were closed as he holstered the firearm and tucked his hands into his pockets, his knuckles stinging with the contact. He opened his eyes after a long while of contemplation, of mulling over the dead man’s words, ripping them apart to find meaning.

_ Better to die by your gun than at the hands of a masked monster! _

He climbed the stairs with the sentence plaguing him. Masked monsters weren’t typical in their world outside of hastily planned heists by petty criminal teams, especially in Gotham. But this seemed to be something much different, much more sinister.

No one was at the landing, the mansion quiet in the early hours of morning. He glanced out the window to see the pale grey of early dawn shading the cloud spattered sky. He made his way to his room to find it empty. Hers was empty too. The guard stationed in the hall shrugged and pointed in the opposite direction. “Gym.”

Oliver nodded and went to the gym, the faint sound of scattered punches echoing off the walls. At the door, he dismissed the guard there and entered, his fingers twitching in his pockets. Felicity was situated in front of a red punching bag, legs parted in a perfect sparring stance - the stance he had taught her years before. He watched her throw punches, her grunts and stifled cries a painful chorus.

It didn’t take long before he knew he needed the same aggression, the same therapy.

He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. He tugged his belt from the pants loops and tossed them to the ground, then toed off his shoes. The sounds did not register to Felicity. She was lost in her own world. She was lost in her guilt and the grief she hadn’t quite dealt with.

He came to the bag beside hers and began throwing his punches. No gloves. No tape. Just bruised, bare knuckles against the leather. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her hesitation before she began her routine once more, matching him punch for punch. Their breathing synced and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that their hearts were beating in time.

The intensity of each connection of hand and leather grew until Felicity screamed, all of her troubles etched into the guttural sound. Oliver ceased his movements and reached for her, his hand grazing her back, contact with her heated skin almost too much to bare. Her body was drenched in sweat, her sports bra clinging to her chest and her leggings hugging her, holding no secrets to the curves she possessed.

She spun around at the invasion, her closed fist colliding against his well-trained block. He gripped her fist firmly. “Leave me alone!” she shouted, throwing her other arm up. He blocked that one too, trapping both of her fists, crossed and immovable. “Oliver,” she whispered, out of breath and tired.

He tugged her close to his bare chest, arms still crossed between them. His lips met hers, first gentle, then frantic as she reciprocated. The sweat of their bodies mingled as he dropped her hands and moved his own over her body, tracing the lines of her hips and the curve of her back until his hands came to her neck and he pulled her ever closer, tilting her head to gain more access. She grasped him, tugging at the waistband of his pants until he was pressed so closely to her that he could feel her heat so gloriously against his own. His hands slid down once more and he lifted her, spreading her legs until they wrapped around his waist and they were moving toward the back wall, a mess of desperation and the desire they so often ignored.

They never made it to that wall. Her persistence and his impatience dropped them to the mats and their hands fidgeted with the close shrouding them, keeping them from the intimacy they craved. But their fingers did their work and their bodies melded as one, a desperate collision of grief and guilt and a little bit of hope. Each pant, each thrust, each moan defining them. In those moments of pleasure, their worries transformed into oblivious euphoria, keeping them away from the world of threats and mysteries until their final cries of climax.

 

* * *

 

“Tell me the words again,” Felicity said, plopping a grape into her mouth as she studied Oliver’s face. He was worried. She knew he had been worried before, but this was different. This was a form of worry she had never seen from him. He was at a loss. Completely and totally.

“‘You’re nothing compared to what I fear - what guides my hand. Better to die by your gun than at the hands of a masked monster!’” Oliver quoted, forming the words carefully as he kept his head pressed onto her lap, her hand resting on his chest. They had moved into his room, distracting themselves a few more times before the real world had crashed into them once more, demanding more discussion. “I’ve never heard of anyone with a mask. Never. Anywhere.”

She fed him a grape and pondered his words.

She hadn’t heard of anyone with a mask either and the very thought terrified her. The list of locations, dates and times glowed on her computer screen at the foot of the bed, glaring its betrayal. It had given her hope. She had been so convinced it was something important, something that would help her survive in the uncertainty her mother had left behind. But the gunshots still reverberated in her brain, hateful in their intent.

“Stop thinking,” Oliver whispered up to her.

She looked down at him and grinned, plopping another grape into his mouth with a roll of her eyes. “Can’t help it,” she said with a long sigh. “This is just too much.”

“It is.”

“We don’t even know what to look out for.”

“We’ll survive this.”

She watched him for a moment, seeing the confidence flicker to life in his eyes, previously nonexistent with his worry. It was forced, a ploy to get her to calm down. She appreciated it regardless. She leaned down and planted a soft kiss to his lips, cherishing the stubble against her smooth skin. Then a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” they both said in unison.

The door creaked open and Diggle walked in. “We have some interesting news.”

Oliver sat up and stood, his hands falling into his pockets as he paced over to Diggle and frowned. “Interesting?”

“Some of Falcone’s operations here in Starling have been attacked and it looks like some of his most trusted have gone missing.”

Felicity stood to join them, her robe wrapped tightly around her as she sunk her hands into the fluffy pockets. “Do you think all of this is connected?”

For a moment, no one moved and no one spoke. The heaviness of the possibilities and growing threats overwhelmed them, keeping them in a state of silence. Diggle finally let out a simple not. Then the room echoed with an odd beeping, straight from her laptop speakers, and she rushed over, heart thundering in her chest and hands trembling.

The screen was black but for a twenty-one letters and one punctuation mark flashing a blinding white.

_ How fast are your fingers? _

And then, after a few moments of headache inducing flashing, the screen went black. And she waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for patiently waiting for this update! I hope you enjoyed it! Please don't forget to leave a comment!
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**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Let me know!
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